I can't make the long ride to my Li'l Buddy's house, but we can always read books lying on the couch at GrammyB's!

﻿Some of you may have noticed there have been long gaps between my recent posts. I haven’t sworn off of words or hit writer's block or anything like that. In fact, I’ve read thousands of words – at least nine books since Christmas, - since reading is one thing that is easy to do while lying on my back. Or stomach.

Words are swirling in my head. I find myself writing opening lines or supporting sentences in my head. I swap words in and out of phrases almost as readily as Youngest Mystery changes clothes when he’s getting ready for school. (“Looks like a clothing factory blew up in here,” I tell him, and he grins.) The problem isn’t with words my brain can’t parse. The problem is I can’t sit on my …. At least, not for very long.

At first, I was convinced that our chairs had gradually been getting harder and harder. And then I just could not find a way to sit any more. Not without pain. Lots of it, running down my left leg, squeezing like a vise that would not quit.

I had spine x-rays that showed something was amiss, but the Big Boss Insurance Co. felt it was important to prolong the agony a few more weeks before approving an MRI. (Who needs to be seen by a doctor, really? Just call the insurance company and go through their computer checklist. Forget clinical considerations. Yep, I'm a little bitter about this. I will try to get over it.)

So, I had ten days of steroids followed by some muscle relaxers, with a side of anti-inflammatory meds…followed by a couple weeks of physical therapy. I’ve learned to manage pain…because it’s still there. Except for where it isn’t. Tingling numbness haunts every step. (But I can still walk!!) And hooray for good pain meds.

Finally I saw an orthopedic doctor in mid-January, about 6 weeks after my initial GP office visit in Dec. He ordered an MRI stat, which is doctor-speak for a.s.a.p., which is insurance-speak for “we’ll let you jump through the hoops a little more quickly this time.”

I had my first ever MRI two days later. It wasn’t on my bucket list, and now I know why.

Picture a tube shaped coffin with one open end. They let me keep my feet sticking out into the room to prevent insanity, since the top of the tube was about 3 inches from my nose. Not that I could move to look at them…but it was comforting to know part of me was still free. I closed my eyes but unfortunately I could not close my ears. For thirty minutes, it sounded like cranky elves were pounding intermittently on the resonant exterior with ballpeen hammers. I lay there thinking, “This is modern medicine?” How about a few phones that aren’t quite as smart, and some medical equipment that is a little smarter?! With the average MRI costing $2600 before insurance kicks in, (http://time.com/money/2995166/why-does-mri-cost-so-much/) I think at least a smidge of the money from each scan should be reserved for sound barrier improvements or at least decent headphones. Those generic ear plugs they gave me didn’t even slow down the sounds that bounced through my head.

I returned to the doctor’s office for a diagnosis and “what’s next” visit last week. He was kind and thorough and clear with his explanation. A disc had herniated, meaning that part of the gel from inside the disc has pushed its way through the disc, compressing a nerve. “It’s like you have a big wad of gum, smashing against the nerve.” (at the L4, L5 vertebrae.)

And that’s why I cannot sit without pain, why my leg is numb, why I have lost the ability to lift my big toe. He knows what's wrong, and he knows what to do to fix it for which I am extremely grateful. So, if all goes as planned- (which would be a pleasant surprise)-next month at this time, I’ll be starting down the road to recovery.

Between now and then...and on that day (March 5)....and for the days beyond, I'll be grateful for your prayers. Some of you know that our family already had a “back surgery” experience last summer involving Max. As the doctor sees it, this procedure will be much less involved than that one, so that I’ll be in and out of the hospital in a day followed by a few weeks of recovery. I’m hopeful that there will be pain-free sitting in my future, but I’m not holding my breath that it will be anytime soon.

In the meantime, I’m learning a lot about which I hope to write later.

I’m more aware of the pervasive influence of chronic pain, and I’ve been experiencing the “fellowship of suffering.”

I'm thankful for the availability of cheap!) pain meds that help me live my life in the interim between diagnosis and surgery.

I am coming to terms again with the value of being where my feet are, particularly when there are some other places I’d planned for them to be these days. ﻿ (My ﻿much anticipated trip to S. Africa has been put on hold, but I can't say that I've completely given up on the idea...)

I’m still working on my gratitude list - sleeping well at night, night after night, is a huge reason for thankfulness.

I try not to take for granted that I generally get complete relief after a few minutes lying down.

I am realizing again the importance of focusing on what I can do – read, sleep, sit for a bit, walk, - when it is tempting to be chronically frustrated by what I can’t do.

One morning my feet (and pjs) were here,

so I could capture this view of our neighbor's horses...

enjoying a frolicking good time in the pasture!

I am again choosing to trust God in the timing and outcome of this experience, believing that He is always at work even when I cannot understand precisely what He is doing in my life at any given moment. His faithfulness through the years is the foundation on which I stand…even when I cannot sit.

And in the meantime, I'm choosing to see the beauty around me, right here on Hickory Lane...(which has been gloriously easy a few mornings recently!)

﻿﻿Thursdays are for thankfulness, and this day is supposed to be the thankful-est Thursday of them all, at least in the United States. Unfortunately, our Thanksgiving celebrating gets all mixed up with pilgrims and football and pumpkins and parades and Norman Rockwell's paintings of the perfect feast.

﻿Often, our gratitude is just as mixed up, spread a mile wide (Thank you that we aren't persecuted/poor like those unfortunate people in ________ pick a country)

and an inch deep. (Thanks for all our stuff. And our perfect family!)

And does anyone else think it's ironic that the national day for supposedly showing gratefulness for "all our stuff" is immediately followed by "Black Friday," a day known as the pushin'est, shovin'est shopping day of the year?

Apparently we aren't as grateful as we'd like to let on. (Or maybe we think our friends/relatives aren't, since we're supposedly shopping for them!) Black Friday horror stories abound, and they're characterized by greed and numerous of the other deadly sins (including wrath, pride, lust, and envy, leaving only sloth and gluttony which most people probably checked off the list the day before!And then, faster than you can cook and carve an 18 pound bird and clean up the dishes, Thanksgiving is gone, forgotten, re-shelved until the turkey hunger returns in 364 days.

﻿Thanksgiving.

Thanks giving.

Giving thanks. ﻿

﻿We juggle the phrase around like a loose football, but neglect to practice it on any level that would make the day, or our lives, meaningful.Even in church settings, we have a tendency to speak of our many blessings, but then limit our superficial list to what we have that a lot of other people don't have, and aren't we "blessed…" or are we just lucky? You know, warm house, plenty of clothes, healthy bodies, food and more food, gathered family, good jobs, toys for one and all…and when I hear those lists, something inside of me cringes.Is that it, is that all we've got on our thankful list?﻿

A cynical but observant young man once commented to me, "Isn't church just about Christians kissing up to God?" Do you know what he meant? Here's the definition for "kissing up"- "to try to please a powerful person, because you want them to do something for you." ﻿

﻿Is that all we're doing when we give thanks?

"Dear God, We love it! (Insert "The List" here.) Please keep it coming! (Notice, I said please!) Oh, and thank you. Amen." That's it, that's Thanksgiving? Or is there more, much, much more? Oh, dear God, you have already done so much, and we ponder it so little.

But what you have done is foundational and transformational, and your love is unconditional.

﻿In the "Prayers of the People" portion of the morning office (a more formal type of daily prayer), I regularly read these words: We give you thanks, Almighty God, for all Your gifts so freely bestowed upon us and all whom You have made….

This year those words have been a game changer, a lens refocuser…

what are the gifts so freely bestowed upon us and all.whom. You. Have. made?﻿

﻿The prayer continues: We bless you for our creation, preservation, and all the blessings of life.Above all- For the redemption of the world by our Lord Jesus Christ, For the hope of glory (what's to come!!) And the means of grace (what we need for this day…) We thank you O Lord. Grant us such an awareness of Your mercies, we pray, that with truly thankful hearts we may give You praise, not only with our lips, but in our lives, by giving up ourselves for Your service…

﻿This Thanksgiving season, I want my gratitude to go a little deeper. I want to understand more of the gifts God has freely bestowed on all whom He has made,gifts that He wants to be made available to anyone, anywhere, in any circumstance. I want my list to stir in someone else a longing to move closer to Jesus, to understand more about what God offers.﻿And I want to ask His help to see those in my world who do not yet know the wonder of this amazing list.

Grace. Jesus.

His death.

His resurrection.

The Book.

The Story.

The Promises.

The daily Presence.Strength for today. Hope for tomorrow.

Blessings all mine, with ten thousand beside...

﻿Still thanking, still counting, because Thursday are for thankfulness. Especially this one.

It seemed like a great concept at the time, but life can get really messy really fast,

and who's idea was that anyway?

Oh. Mine. Well then.

This post is for all of you who (don't know me very well and) might think that a woman writing a blog with posts like "I'll take joy," a woman who has a soapbox entitled Thursdays are for thankfulness and regularly encourages others to be present in the moment... doesn't lose perspective. Regularly.

I have news for you.

A perspective of gratitude can evaporate faster than you can write "Out of Order!"

It's embarrassing, really, but perhaps you'll find it a bit reassuring. We're all on this journey together, and sometimes it seems like a lot of uphill, with plenty of "Out of Order" all along the way. Keeping my perspectacles on my face is a daily...no, honestly, usually hourly challenge. (I owe the perspectacles concept to Glennon Doyle Melton over at the Momastery. I say to you, Read it!!)﻿

﻿So, I've been having some First World stuff management problems recently. And here's where the perspectacles need cleaned and placed on my nose over and over again. I know, I really do know that these are First World problems. It's just that I do live here...and having things Out of Order! is oh so inconvenient!

It allstarted with my washing machine a few weeks back. Or, it all stopped... Occasionally, it just wouldn't "wash." Turn the knob, pull, click, nothing. Repeat. There were days when dropping the lid with some extra ummph brought the desired result. Youngest became my washer tech; he had the lid slam knack, and we'd do a little happy dance and forget the problem. Until next time.

Last week, it all came to a screeching halt..no, a silent halt, and for the past 13 days, we've been doing laundry in the homes of friends and relatives or by hand in the utility sink or bathtub which, as it turns out, is a tad unhandy. The repair guy removed the faulty part on a Thursday, and five days later called to let us know that he was (?finally?) ordering the replacement part but it was more expensive than he'd expected. Order it already.

A week later, the new part was installed…and I still couldn't do laundry. House call didn't fix it…inpatient treatment was needed. (And that's different than impatient…which is how I was feeling.) I watched them haul my washer out the door and wondered when/if it would return. Although I had some moments of being grateful that I didn't need to go to the laundromat because we have kind and generous friends, those moments seemed rather far and few between. I began to sense that my gratituder was also Out of Order!) I couldn't see the blesings for the hassle.

The internet was the next thing to go. Poof. Someone vacuumed under the computer desk, and we haven't been in cyberspace since. It's been five days since I checked my e-mail, and I can only imagine what a mess that will be. I've had a long message half finished for my far flung daughter-in-law…and there it sits, waiting to be completed. It's hard to write when you have no idea when you'll be able to hit send. I'm amazed at the number of times each day I think, oh, I'll just look that up…oh, no I won't, it's Out of Order! I want to find a recipe, directions to…just about anywhere, (you know me?!), a movie review of the latest "must see" about which Youngest has been obsessing, news updates on that missing teen, points of interest in the area where we hope to "get away" in a few weeks, weekend weather forecast. No, no, no, and no. I generally stay in touch with quite a few of my friends and relatives primarily by e-mail/facebook messaging, etc, and the overall effect has been quite isolating. I know, so First World, but that is where I live, and it's been crazy to feel so disconnected. Even our land line phone seems to be in on the conspiracy, as the buzzy feedback keeps conversations short and to the point. Max thinks this is possibly related to the internet issue, and the phone repair guy is supposed to arrive "sometime before 7pm." Okay.

﻿And then the van died. It was time to make the daily trip to pick up Youngest after his half day of school. I inseted the key, turned, and heard…click. Nothing. Wouldn't even turn over. Dead battery? What a Monday. Fortunately, Max was in town and available to make the necessary stop, and he came home and charged the battery later in the day. But next morning, just to be sure, I decided to double check. Funny sounds under the hood when I turned the key…and when I pulled the key out, funny sounds continued. Strange. Very very strange. And one more thing was Out of Order! in my world. I wrote most of the above post yesterday, "before 7pm," and sure enough the phone tech guys arrived early in the afternoon. They had less trouble finding our problems than they had finding our house. (Gotta love rural.) In minutes they had fixed two separate issues. We ended up with a new modem, faster DSL, and no more hissing on the land line. Free long distance even. While they were here, I saw my washing machine moving through the back door...and shortly, swish, swish, the whites were on their way to spotless.

"Oh yeah," the phone guys joked, "we fixed that too."

"Do you know anything about mini-vans?"

Two out of three wasn't bad. But I felt a little qualm of...something as I did my happy dance in the kitchen, like something in ME had been Out of Order! I paused to recall some simple joys that came my way in the midst of the turmoil. I remembered the utterly peaceful morning I spent in someone else's living room as I babysat my laundry. I thought about the extra reading I'd done in those evenings without the internet, and realized that a certain level of peace had been achieved when Youngest knew "getting on the computer" wasn't even an option. I felt deeply grateful for sharing friends, for local laundry repair guys who were kind and dependable if not fast, for readily available, trustworthy phone technicians. But clearly, I was a little Out of Order! giving thanks after the problems were solved, looking back and noticing that there had been these little joyful moments allalongtheway. Oops. Out of Order!

Give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you.I Thessalonians 5:18 esv

So I'll be working on that, and I'm sure God will be working on me, reminding me that when life gets Out of Order! I don't have to wait around to be grateful, to give thanks, to take joy! Today, as I write, the washer whispers our towels from ewww to freshness. My feet are warm, my coffee is hot, and I know the dryer will tumble every piece to fluff. I have so many everyday blessings, but when my perspectacles slip off, I seem to ﻿notice﻿only the problems.

You too? (Please say yes?!)

So, for this day my gratitude list will include some serious non-essentials that make my life embarrassingly easy. Another day, I will go deep, and explore the wonder of God's creation and the unfathomable mystery of His love for me, but in this moment I will give thanks for flush toilets, warm clean socks, working refrigerator, hot water at the bathroom sink, electric lights and outlets, a coffee maker, and my dad's car to use while the van problem gets solved...gratitude is definitely in order.

﻿Looks can be deceiving this time of year; our August weather has been unusually cool and damp. Lawns (we call them yards here!) and pastures are still the greenest green...and this year there was a need for the second round of Amish-neighbor-pasture-mowing for the first time as far back as I can remember. And yet, autumn is in the air. ﻿﻿﻿

﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿Queen Anne's Lace trims the roadsides like miles of tatting, and jewel weed fills every damp corner with a spangle of showy orange. Still, on closer inspection, I know it's autumn. The blue cornflower stars are mostly gone, and only a smattering of butter and eggs can still be found. Weeds whose names I don't kno﻿w are overtaking the roadsides.(must have been budget cuts in the township this year, because the trimming guy has only made his rounds once this summer...Maybe there was too much snow plowing overtime last winter?﻿) ﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿

﻿Even my birds know that change is coming. During evening walks, not one red-winged black bird rises from boggy sedge to warn of danger. I know longer wake to early robin racket. (When did they all leave?) Goldfinches feast on thistle heads waving from spots my diligent farmer-neighbors missed in their midsummer thistle eradication efforts. One morning last week, I awoke to the plaintive call of wild geese, honking their way down the valley, and the message was unmistakable. Autumn is in the air.

And the crickets. I've written of them before, these incessant chirpers who for a few weeks give me a kind of reprieve from the unstoppable ringing in my ears...because they are so noisy, so steadily, relentlessly present that I can't quite tell where the ringing stops and the chirping begins. Which is a relief. Sort of. I don't know how many of their 900 species are native to my valley, but their never ending sound...should one call it a song?- echoes from roadside weeds and hills and even, I'm almost certain, trees. Autumn is in the air.

This week I was startled to meet, in my own garden, an out-of-sync 17 year locust, correctly known as the periodical cicada. He must march to his own drummer, for most of his group emerged in hordes in 2008 and we'll won't see them again until 2025. I've seen recent evidence of two such visitors here on Hickory Lane, papery dry shells of their nymph stage clinging to the great maple. I hope they find each other, for I think their whole purpose is to reproduce in the 4-6 week window of their brief life. They'd best get at it; autumn is in the air.

﻿﻿﻿My favorite woodland meadow is neck high in promised glory, thousands of leggy goldenrod stalks, growing tall and taller, a field of adolescents poised on the verge of adulthood. Morning mist visits more frequently and hangs in the valley until mid-morning. The afternoons are still warm, but the sun seems half-hearted these days, and when evening slips around, the grass is suddenly wet; I know the fog will be up before me when the new day begins. I cannot deny it; autumn is in the air.﻿

﻿And for a change, I think I might be ready for it. I know, I'm the one who has always said that summer is too short and could we please put February between August and September because it would be more useful there. (And less slushy, without wintry mix.) I'm just looking at things differently these days. Change is in the air, and I'm okay with that. ﻿

I think it helped that we took our vacation earlier than usual this year. In previous home school years, we always prolonged the summer by vacationing after Labor Day, clinging to those last summer days in sand and sun, then returning home to discover, abruptly, that autumn had arrived. But this year we're more tied to a traditional school calendar since Youngest Mystery is a part-time student in a traditional school. (Yes, change is in the air!) So, we found a few days in August, before soccer pre-season, to revel in the joys of seaside summer (books for the grownups, swim boards and bikes for the kids, mini-golf for everyone!) and returned to find that summer hadn't quite disappeared while we were away. Thus, I've been much more able to see the gradual shift from from summer to autumn, and I think I'm moving more realistically and naturally into the coming season.

And in the process, ﻿two themes that have run parallel through my life in recent years seem to be converging in my soul:...Being where my feet are, and choosing gratitude in that moment.

It's a daily/hourly decision, sometimes moment by moment, and I want to live this way, wholeheartedly present, and very very grateful.

﻿Life goes better that way. And I know this. But I don't always remember to choose. Talking about it here helps me, holds me accountable and puts my resolve in black and white...or in this case, purple and white. ﻿

﻿So, here I am again, pondering how to be present in this moment, how to release my efforts to clutch what is fleeting, how to welcome this change and embrace it with gratitude.

I will list my moments of gratitude in these in-between-summer-and-autumn days:

﻿I was up later than usual on Thursday night because my friend was on the way, and it was no ordinary fr﻿ie﻿ndfor whom I waited. I often tease Audrey by saying she is my oldest ﻿frien﻿﻿d﻿, although she is actually one month (exactly!) younger than I am. More accurately, the friendship we share is my oldest friendship, since we've never not known each other, except for that first clueless month of my life. Our mothers were sisters, so that makes us cousins. I've seen cousins defined as "childhood playmates who grow up to be foreverfrien﻿ds," and I think that's true in our case.

﻿So, I was waiting and thinking about our ﻿﻿friendship﻿﻿. We're a lot alike, and we know why. It's the Mellinger genes. We understand that tears will come easily for reasons that may not be apparent to others; we agree that we don't understand what went down between our moms decades ago, in effect permanently stifling their relationship, and we aren't going to perpetuate it. We have a huge backlog of information about each other that is just a given, which cuts out a lot of long explanations when we're sorting through current "stuff" together. We graduated from high school together. We both love music, but she's the musician, and we both love flowers, but I am the gardener. We're both married to men in positions of long term ministry in the evangelical world which has brought us all manner of joy and headache, (not necessarily in that order.) We both gave birth to two biological sons whom we homeschooled, and we are both currently in the throes of figuring out what it means to be The Mother-In-Law two times over. (We really want to "get it right," but so far we're sort of floundering along the best we can.)

And, we both have some issues with directions, probably me more than her. Probably. Although, as I sat and waited for her on Thursday night, I had to wonder. She was coming to my extremely rural home from a distant town, relying completely on the accuracy of her phone gps. I knew she utterly trusted it, because I've been with her before in similar situations, and as long as she knows where she is in terms of the little green dot, she's good. Similar situations, I say, but nothing as remote as where I live, which I wasn't sure she understood, living as she does on Long Island, New York. So, when I got a text message at 12:10am that read,

﻿"I think I'm here but not sure where I am,"﻿

﻿I wasn't too surprised. And I did have to chuckle a little. I know that feeling regularly when I'm traveling too. Soon my phone rang, and we were trying to figure out where she was. When the 9-1-1 emergency phone service became a reality here a few years ago, every farm lane in our valley was duly assigned a name and marked with appropriate signage. Apparently, this can be confusing to the powers that be who create "the shortest distance between two points"programs because Audrey had been directed to turn right into our Amish neighbor's front lane. His property has access along two roads, so Audrey's green dot bumped her along through the barnyard, and out onto the other road, neatly bypassing our house completely. (I had wondered why the "NO THRU TRAFFIC" sign had been added to the neighbor's sign, and now I know. Apparently this is happening regularly, and those middle of the night headlights are a bit unsettling, out here where the house gets dark when the sun goes down.) Of course, none of this was obvious in the deep (no electric night lights here!) darkness of midnight, but soon Audrey's headlights came around the corner to reveal one happy woman jumping and waving at the end of my Hickory Lane! ﻿

That's our shed, and my Hickory Lane mailbox in the background, neither of which were visible at midnight!

﻿I just couldn't believe she was here, and I couldn't believe how excited I felt about our coming "girls day out." I could hardly get to sleep.

So, we spent most of the day together Friday, and what did we do?

We sat and talked over coffee at the kitchen table. For a long time.

We wandered around the property, and she was graciously delighted to see my garden, which is simultaneously my happy place and the biggest pile of work I've ever undertaken..especially this memorable back-surgery-for-the-hubby summer. She ooh-ed and ahh-ed and took pictures and blessed me with her enthusiasm.

We tried to get some pictures of the two of us together, but one of us usually had our eyes closed, hands waving or mouth open, talking; this one was the best, taken in sun and shadow by the water garden, the first picture we took! ﻿

﻿The hours passed so quickly. We ventured to the (only) local spot for lunch, lingering over tasty paninis and a two straw, shared strawberry smoothie... and talked some more. Eventually we wandered partway up the mountain road where I often hike. It was nothing extraordinary, or so it seemed, just two ﻿﻿frie﻿nd﻿s﻿﻿ laughing a lot and talking on and on, about God and life and family. But as I thought about the wonder of a true ﻿friend,﻿ I realized what an extraordinary richness I was experiencing in these ordinary hours.

In case you are wondering, this is not my only ﻿frien﻿d﻿, and I'm not into the BFF terminology. Audrey is simply part of the fabric of my life, one of the gifts I've come to cherish more as the years pass. I am blessed with a plethora of ﻿f﻿rie﻿nds﻿﻿ -scat﻿tered here and there around the country and the globe, friends I've known since childhood, cousin fr﻿iend﻿s, women I've known since college days, friends from early years of marriage living elsewhere, ﻿friends ﻿young enough to be my daughters, (like my much loved daughters-in-law), others old enough to be my mother, many friends I've met in my sojourn here in Big Valley, women I've come to love as sisters in the Sunday school class we call the Family...Circus. (Okay, Family Circle.) I count every one of them as a treasure of great value, including the newest friend I've been "growing" in my garden this summer as I share space and garden know-how and life stories while we weed and plant and weed and weed... What would life be without the good fortune of good friends? It's not Thursday, but ever day is a day to be grateful for a ﻿﻿friend﻿﻿.

Oh, what is so rare,in an age of facebook friendships a globe wide and one inch deep, in a world where anonymous social networks like Whisper and YakYak are on the rise, in a world of tweets and likes, what is so rare and wonderful as an ordinary day laughing and talking and being together, two ol﻿d ﻿f﻿rie﻿nds﻿﻿? -Hummin' B

﻿"And what is so rare as a day in June," has morphed into something broader in recent days as I've contemplated what it means to discover beauty and﻿﻿jo﻿y﻿﻿in any given day. I've been wondering, does it take an extraordinary moment to bring me﻿﻿joy﻿﻿, or are ordinary moments transformed to the extraordinary category when I discover the﻿joy﻿ they bring? This theme has been interwoven in my life as I continue the journey of gratitude, daily adding to my list of moments for which I can give thanks in the midst of whatever else life happens to be dishing out. The question "what makes a ﻿joyful﻿ moment" sits in the back of my mind like a quiet cat in the corner of my garden. I know it's there, and occasionally it sneezes and I rethink its presence. (And, here the analogy breaks down completely because I long for more﻿joyful﻿moments in my life and fewer cats in my garden…) I think about it when I'm weeding my garden paths; I mull the question over in my mind when I am driving with sleeping passengers. Brene Brown says,

Joy is not a constant. It comes to us in moments, often ordinary moments. Sometimes we miss out on the bursts of﻿﻿joy﻿﻿because we're too busy chasing down extraordinary moments.

﻿ I had the pleasure of experiencing the simple j﻿oys of little boys with my favorite little man this weekend. We had a rare and wonderful day filled with nothing but ordinary moments, together. And those moments brought extraordinary﻿joy﻿﻿.

Yes I know that's too much banana in his mouth at one time, but who is gonna take it out... and look at the blue of those extraordinary eyes.

He prefers to be "out" and that's where we spent most of our time. The "going out the door" moment is full of expectation and wonder.

The family chickens are a great source of interest and entertainment. When it is time for them to free range, it takes a lot of patience to wait for them to come out. Then, everyone free ranges together…at least, that's what the boy would like to happen! The chickens, not so much. ﻿

The sandbox was as new delight, including sitting ON the turtle! Playing IN the turtle was great too; ahh, the exuberance of smashing little sand cupcakes over and over again. I was making the cakes, and since cameras and sand are incompatible, you'll just have to take my word for it. I. made. a. lot. of. cup. cakes.

We ventured down the driveway to the mailbox this way…﻿

.﻿..but the trip back looked a little different. It was a nice GrammyB workout for the day, and who could resist that sweetness?﻿

It was an ordinary day, it was an extraordinary day to remember. There were sticks to be gathered, smooth stones to be counted and flowers to be smelled.

Laura Ingalls Wilder once said,"I am beginning to learn that it is the sweet simple things in life which are the real ones after all."

I'm learning that too. And I believe it's the real things that bring tru﻿e﻿joy.

And, what is so rare as a day in June? Then if ever come perfect days…

﻿“How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.” A.A. Milne Winnie the PoohWinnie the Pooh was right, which is interesting considering he only had fluff for a brain. Yesterday, Wandering Son waved and grinned, and headed back to his other home on another continent. I drove home from the airport alone, and I thought the oxygen levels in the car were depleted. Today, I'm feeling the bittersweet aftertaste of two weeks of late night discussions and much laughter. And for today, I'm choosing gratitude for relationships that make saying goodbye hard. How blessed I am.

I thought the rain was appropriate yesterday, since I was raining too. It's not that rain is rare this time of year; but rain is another one of those ordinary June wonders that I'm watching for these days. Rain refreshes and nourishes all growing things. Including me.

I love the sound of rain on the roof, the smell of rain coming, the glistening drops reflecting and magnifying the green world. It's one of "My Favorite Things..."

Raindrops on grapevines...

When the dog bites, when the bee stings, when I'm feeling sad, (or saying goodbye?) I simply remember my favorite things, and then I don't feel so bad.(Rogers and Hammerstein, "My Favorite Things", The Sound of Music, 1959)

It's time to head out to the garden. Guess what I'll be humming today? ~HumminB~

Last night, the sky hinted that something was coming. Clouds swirled and billowed with promise at sunset. 8:17pm

I watched a long arm of clouds boil up from behind the ridge to the west, looking like a new range of mountains rising before my eyes and then rolling down into the valley. Eerie. 8:36pm

Here it comes...8:38pm

﻿As I watched, the clouds darkened; behind them, below them, the sky poured white sheets of rain, and I knew my time in the backyard was coming to an end. Soon. (If I wanted to stay dry.) The wind whipped my hair and brought cool refreshment. I twirled around a few times, wishing I could fling myself skyward like a wild bird. I couldn't see all of the sky at a glance, so I kept turning, trying to view the swirling wonder that seemed ready to surround me. The clouds were low, low, low, hovering over our pasture. The rain began suddenly, hard drops pinging the metal porch roof. I was glad I didn't have far to run.

Before the evening was over, I spotted a rainbow. Two of them, actually, way down the valley long after our rain was finished. Thunder rumbled back and forth along distant ridges; the horizon was white with downpour. I felt a little sad that our storm was ended, while "they" were still having rain and storm and wild wind a few miles away. It was a glorious storm. I loved it, loved that storm, wanted to somehow be a part of it, to throw my arms in the air and end up in that storm cloud. My heart swelled with praise to God for the power and glory and wonder of the storm.

In the storms of my life, not so much. And, from what I hear from other people, not so much in their lives either. I (we) resist the storm, resent it, and really want it to just go. away. now. I don't want to praise God in it or for it. I want it to be gone.

My life has been a bit stormy in recent...days/weeks/months/years. Let's just say it's complicated. And I frequently forget the truth of this song which I hadn't heard for awhile until...today. (Driving home from the airport alone. But that's a separate post.)

﻿I was sure by nowThat You would have reached downAnd wiped our tears awayStepped in and saved the dayBut once again, I say “Amen”, and it's still raining

As the thunder rollsI barely hear Your whisper through the rain“I'm with you”And as You mercy fallsI raise my hands and praise the God who givesAnd takes away

I'll praise You in this stormAnd I will life my handsFor You are who You areNo matter where I amEvery tear I've criedYou hold in Your handYou never left my sideAnd though my heart is tornI will praise You in this storm﻿

﻿Immediately, my thoughts turned to last night's splendid storm, and I caught the tiniest glimpse of what it could mean to praise God in the storm. I barely heard Him whisper through the rain, "I'm with you..." And as His mercy fell, I raised my hands, and my voice, and praised the God who gives and takes away, for He is God. He is who He is, and He has never left my side. I'll trust Him. I will praise Him in the storm. ﻿

Here on Hickory Lane, June has slipped in wearing robin-egg-blue sky and unfaded, untattered leaves of the greenest green. The meadows are elegant in buttercups and the cows don't eat them. (Yeah for cows. I totally get this. There is too much beauty for me to digest as well!) The vegetable garden is poised between the work of planting and the labor of harvest. Perennials have begun the annual cycle of budding, blooming and fading. Goodbye, poppies, hello iris. We are (FINALLY) certain that winter has had her last bow, and the heat of midsummer is still just a whispered promise as the sun passes high noon on cloudless days. Birds are singing from no-light-early till faintest sunset-glimmer-darkness, and I know it's strictly an attraction/mating/nesting ritual according to some skeptics, but I am not one of those. There is just too much full-hearted joy in the warble of the song sparrow, the robin's evensong, the bubbling waterfall music of the wren to reduce it all to species survival. Bird song is the soundtrack of every June day.

"And what is so rare as a day in June?" the poet queried, and the answer is nothing. Nothing is so rare and glorious and breathtaking. Unless it is a bright blue October day spangled with leaf color...

Or a silent January evening after a day of steady snowfall...

Or an April morning when nature's first golden green repaints the mountain...

Or a November dawn when fog hangs low in the valley and the chimney smoke from Sadie's kitchen fire floats back along the roof like a lost kite string...

Even February has moments of stark beauty.

October sky provides the backdrop for a walnut tree silhouette.

.My mind stumbles around, trying to think its way through this conundrum. Every day can be breathtaking, amazing, magnificent…but then, is it "rare?"

Doesn't rare means uncommon..unusual...exceptional...extraordinary?

And if every day is this way, or has this potential, it is no longer rare. It is ordinary. Common. Usual. Typical. Yet the beauty is too stunning to ever pass as ordinary. But, somehow that is exactly what happens as I scurry through life, day after day after day. I pass the wonder, unseeing, and pass through my days blind and unmoved by the extraordinary magnificence that colors every ordinary day.

Last October, I undertook a personal challenge, a project, based on this quote by Ralph Waldo Emerson:

"To the attentive eye, each moment of the year has its own beauty, and in the same fields, it beholds every hour a picture which was never seen before and shall never be seen again."

﻿I took time to develop my attentive eye. I made an effort each day to watch my ordinary, Hickory Lane world for the beauty of which Emerson spoke. My facebook page became a place for me to record observations and to challenge others to join me. I posted photos of extraordinary splendor in the ordinary sights of every ordinary day. I found myself looking more, and seeing more. More beauty, more tiny bits of wonder, more of what was already there, but which I ordinarily overlooked in my inattentive daily rush. I liked what happened in me as I became more aware of and more grateful for the extraordinary wonders in my ordinary world.

So, it's the first day of June now, and and I'm realizing I am in great need of my attentive eye to seek, to absorb, to attend to the beauty that surrounds me in my ordinary challenging world. Some of you know that our household is living the reality of recovery from major back surgery on Hickory Lane, and none of us would have chosen this journey for any of the rest of us…yet here we are.

And it's hard. Very hard. Painful for everyone involved.

It is a journey of change and loss and uncertainty. And in the middle of that, it's hard to keep my eye attentive to the wonder that surrounds me.

Recently, I was working in my garden at the end of a rather bleak day. I was weeding vigorously, hoeing potatoes and keeping a sharp eye out for potato bugs.

I wasn't looking for the wonder.

My Amish neighbor was hauling manure, so that added to the…atmosphere.On one of his trips out the field lane, he paused his horses parallel to where I was working and pointed skyward with a sweep of his arm. Rainbow.

﻿ Bright at the earth's edge, and curving in a full and lovely arc that ended in the neighbors barnyard, it brought a smile to my dirt smudged face. Farmer neighbor was still grinning as he continued on his way. ﻿

Manure and rainbows.

Weeds and wonder.

Welcome to my world. Probably yours too.

Ordinary days, rare days. One and the same. Sometimes it's just a matter of perspective, of looking for the one even in the midst of the other. This is my personal June challenge, to find the "rare" in every ordinary day. I'd be glad for some fellow travelers on this journey…

And what is so rare as a day in June? Thank you, James Russell Lowell for your poetic question. You're helping me to find the wonder again. I'd better get this posted. It's almost tomorrow. Another ordinary day. Another extraordinary wonder to discover. Hummin'B

I miss it sometimes, only noticing His grin in the rear view mirror as a scene fades from the present to the past, overhearing a quiet chuckle at the end of a day…But this week, for a change, I discerned the funny side smack dab in the middle of it. A persistent theme of gratitude has been emerging in my blog over the past number months, maybe even years…Thursdays are for thankfulness first began back in September of 2011, and I've felt God's nudge more than once that I am slow, so slow in grasping the significance of this truth. Gratitude is at the core of so much of what I've been learning in recent years.

"Gratitude precedes the blessing…." -Ann Voscamp In addition, for the past three months (three months?!) I've been on a little kick about "what's to love about winter" in an effort to counteract all the negativity that creeps into the atmosphere as we all wait for spring. I was feeling that I'd "weathered" the winter pretty well, keeping my murmuring to a minimum. (Going "public" with bold statements about what's to love about winter has kept me accountable in ways I hadn't counted on!!) So, according to the calendar, the Vernal Equinox arrived, March 20, and it was time to move forward.

I tried to ignore the lingering chill, but it was impossible not to notice. The average temperature at 7 am on the days following calendar spring was a nippy 28.85 degrees, rising at noon to a balmy average of 36; some days were calm, but most were blustery and frigid with some hefty wind gusts. I started to wonder if this would indeed be the year without spring, just as 1816 is now characterized as the year without a summer.

And then Tuesday arrived, March 25, and it was my birthday. My husband was hoping for measurable snow so he could stomp out a birthday greeting in the yard (Last year, it looked like this…)

As I poured my coffee, I noticed the temperatures had dropped into the teens; spring was nowhere to be seen, or so it seemed to my shivering self. I might have felt a little grumbly. I know I was cold.

And then, unmistakably, snowflakes drifted past the window. Now and again, all day long, I saw them. Snow didn't accumulate, and there were pauses throughout the day, but it was a day characterized by multiple episodes of floating flurries. Sometimes they swirled gently on the lightest breeze; occasionally, they whipped wildly around the corners. They just kept coming and abruptly I realized how beautiful they all were. Unexpectedly, I laughed, recognizing them for what they were, a million sparkling birthday gifts from God. Yep, snowa lovely gift, even on March 25. For certainly:

Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down (DOWN!) from the Father. James 1:17 NIVSo,I made my various stops throughout the day with a grin on my face, accepting again what I know to be true:

God makes all things beautiful in its time Ecclesiastes 3:11...

and apparently this is still the time, His time, for snow.

There was no message inscribed in the lawn this year; instead, the reminder was written on my heart, "Happy birthday" to me, from God. And so today I declare again,

Thursdays are for thankfulness!

Millions of dancingsnowflakes tell me once more ofGod's presence and love.

Author

I'm finding my way beyond the maze of the "middle" years (if I'm gonna be 100 and something someday...) ​living life as a country woman who is a writer, gardener, wife, mom, nature observer, teacher,and most of all a much loved child of God.